


imbalance

by kiiouex



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, Kavinsky is a content warning, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 11:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6236641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You wish you could remember what you’d been planning to do with him today, what he’s gotten himself keyed up for. But your head is filled with mud; you’re not sharp like you need to be, your teeth are too blunt to make a good threat display. “Are you leaving yet?” </p><p>Kavinsky smirks at you, a wildfire beyond intervention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	imbalance

**Author's Note:**

> I think it was only last year when I said I wouldn't write porn and now here I am, asking people on tumblr to hit me up with smut requests. Look how far I've come. 
> 
> anyway uh this was requested by latenightliar, got beta'd by my beloved [telekinesiskid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid) and I am going to remind everyone to please mind the dub-con warning and look after yourselves because wow is this dubious

You don’t get sick often, which means you’re unprepared when illness finally comes for you; the morning you wake up with an itching throat and aching eyes, you have forgotten that there is anything as mundane as a head cold and assume, stupidly, that the cause is arcane. It takes Gansey telling you you’re looking off-colour for the possibility to even occur, and then the awful lurching of your head gets that much more pronounced to emphasise his point. You’d rather deny it and hold up the illusion of Lynches as an alien, infallible species, but when you shake your head your brain rattles in your skull. You’re willing to admit that you may be, as Gansey says, ‘under the weather’.

At least Gansey is excellent at fussing. He grew up in the kind of house where the smallest sniffle is reason to phone in, see a doctor and spend a day in bed. Unfortunately, he has grown to keep the kind of house where the first aid kit jammed in between the fridge and the toilet is abundant with supplies for split knuckles and stab wounds, and holds nothing for fevers or colds. It’s hard to blame him; he supplies for the demand.

He actually goes out to buy you cold medicine, though. You stand alone in Monmouth’s main room listening to the choked roar of the Camaro’s departure, torn between gratitude for the actual saint that is Gansey, and the feeling that you need to lie down before gravity catches you on its own.

You crash on the couch because it’s closest, trying not to swallow and upset the raw walls of your throat. Dimly, you remember that Kavinsky had called you out for a fight or a race or something else fast and messy, but whatever it was, you’re not making it now. He’ll call you a coward next time you see him, and it’s cute that he still thinks that bothers you. He doesn’t know you as well as he thinks he does.

You sleep for a while, dozing in fragments too shallow to dream in, only surfacing for long enough to decide reality’s not worth it yet and fall back asleep. You’re eventually dragged back to consciousness by a bang on the door, and that forces you upright because Monmouth’s residents know you don’t need a key. You hadn’t heard the Camaro, either, and _that_ should have woken you. You push yourself to your feet, wretchedly aware of how your head reels with the motion, and move to stand guard in front of the door. Even like this, you think you can throw a decent punch.

“ _Lynch_ ,” Kavinsky yells from the other side of the door, disgustingly Jersey accent giving him away, “You spineless piece of shit, get out here.”

You would really rather not. But if you let him in you might be able to get rid of him faster, and the last thing you want is him hanging around until Gansey gets home and decides to be gallant and go to bat for you. You open the door.

He takes you in with a derisive snort, like he doesn’t spend half his life as a feverish wreck. “You look like _shit_ ,” he says, starting forward. You block his way with your arm, and you’ve got that little bit of height over him; you could be enough to ward him off if he’s in the mood to be warded. He considers the barrier you’ve made, nods slowly, and then rams an elbow into your gut and strolls by as you curl inward.

“ _Fuck_ , Kavinsky,” you hiss at him. “Can’t you take a hint? Today is not the fucking day, get out before Gansey gets back and has you done for trespassing.”

“Dick’s waiting for a tow. Passed him on my way over,” Kavinsky tells you, conversational. He’s taking in Monmouth greedily, and it grates on you in a way you don’t quite understand, to have him poisoning this place. Monmouth is one of the very few things in Henrietta that is not his, and he is clearly pleased to be standing in Gansey’s castle, a demon standing on sanctified ground. You don’t say it, because he’d like hearing it too much.

You wish you could remember what you’d been planning to do with him today, what he’s gotten himself keyed up for. But your head is filled with mud; you’re not sharp like you need to be, your teeth are too blunt to make a good threat display. “Are you leaving yet?”

Kavinsky smirks at you, a wildfire beyond intervention, and says, “When I’ve got free reign of this place? I don’t think so, Lynch.” He throws himself backwards, onto Gansey’s bed, carelessly crushing papers and books, and you hiss.

“You do not have free _fucking_ reign,” you snarl, and snatch for his wrist, trying to haul him up. He catches you instead, and your head and gravity lurch in time with his pull, leave you scattered on Gansey’s bed beside him. The smell of him fills your nose inescapably, torn metal and man-made explosions, and half of you is ready to respond, to fall easily into established patterns.

But not on Gansey’s bed. You fight your way back upright, dragging him with you, and you already know he’s not leaving without getting what he came for. You’re too weak to not give it to him. “My room,” you tell him, cheeks burning with too many colours. He goes, victoriously eager.

“It’s worse than I expected,” he says, and his smile is relentlessly cruel. You don’t care that he’s in your room so long as it keeps him out of Gansey’s, and you don’t care that he’s still walking around like he owns the place. He sticks his fingers into Chainsaw’s cage, and she bites them; she is an excellent bird.

You don’t move from the door, where you can lean against the frame, though it’s a miserably obvious tactic. Kavinsky clucks his tongue at you in some gross imitation of sympathy, and asks, “You need something to fix you up, princess?”

Your mouth twists, but the rest of you is good at ignoring him. “Not the kind of thing you’re offering.”

“Cocaine is a cough suppressant,” he tells you, circling back around your bed to you, eyes narrowed and dangerously intent. He settles both hands around your collar, thumbs close enough to your throat to hurt if he wanted to press in. You snake a hand up his neck to fist in his hair, your usual pattern, and you think that even this out of it you can hold up fine against Kavinsky and get him gone in good time. Too bad that it has to be in your room; you’ll just have to learn to live with gasoline streaked through your sheets.

You shove him down, but he twists his legs around yours, manages to flip you both so that you land on your back with him leering down at you. “Did you not notice that you’re weak as shit?” he asks, and rolls your hips together to prove that he can. He hasn’t moved his hands from your neck, and he can put enough weight on your collarbone to keep you down no matter how much you snap at him.

He rocks against you again, enjoying the rush of air from between your teeth, and he can hold you in place with just his hips. “Fuck _off_ ,” you tell him, because you need to be on record as saying it, and he laughs, harsh and rough, sliding one hand up to grip your neck so the other can crawl endlessly down your body to settle between your legs.

Even through your jeans, the pressure’s enough to start sending sparks up to your head, and muscle memory works against you, legs easing open from habit while the circuits in your brain scramble to keep up. Dragging any thought up for examination is difficult, and your mind is murky, swimming; it’s impossible to tell what you do or don’t want, how you should be handling Kavinsky. He knows. That’s why his smile’s so wide.

He palms you roughly through your pants, drawing reluctant shudders out of you, trying to get you in the mood. Apparently he just gets off on you getting off; foreplay is for people other than Kavinsky. He keeps himself tauntingly out of reach of your teeth, not even letting you get a little satisfaction back. At best, you can snatch his stupid shades off his face; facing his coal fire eyes is easier than facing the mirror of yourself.

Finally he closes the space between you, dropping close enough to kiss you, though he catches your bottom lip in his teeth instead, and the metallic tang of your own blood fills your mouth. You try to retaliate, but you’re too slow and he’s moved on, yanking you out of your pants and rubbing your cock in long, unkind strokes. The nails on his free hand are starting to pinch into your neck, and your hazy brain is losing to the endless assault of sensation Kavinsky’s forcing on to every part of you. Sliding your gaze over his skin, all you see is old scars, and it’s a sickening feeling when you realise you’re not giving as good as you’re getting. That between the disconnected sparks in your head, and your aching, shaky body, you can’t pay him back for every mark he puts on you.

He strips the pants off both of you, and you shiver, over exposed. Even the first time, you didn’t feel this vulnerable, but the first time you were high on adrenaline and victory and you took him savagely in the back of his shitty Mitsubishi. Now, you’re not quite present. You don’t think you could stop him, if you wanted to stop him.

You don’t think you’d be able to tell if you wanted to stop him.

It’s not quite fear, but it’s a heightened edge that has you feeling everything that bit more keenly. Kavinsky splits you open with two spit-slicked fingers, because he knows saliva is a shitty lube and he wants to make your day that bit worse, and you grit your teeth, trying not to get too far out of your head. There’s pleasure in you, somewhere, pulsing out of time with the throbbing in your head and all of it made strangely distant and disconnected. It’s probably the kind of feeling you’d be more familiar with if you’d taken more of his pills, but that’s still not something to regret. It’s just something to endure.

At least he’s not in the mood for teasing. You’re at his mercy and he’s still too shaky on the concept of ‘impulse control’ to draw it out, too hungry for the main course, and at least your body still knows what it’s doing. Your thighs are spattered with a rainbow of bruises, teeth marks and handprints, a beautiful tapestry of every time he’s touched you, and they fall open wide for him. He asks, “Are you even trying?” but he doesn’t actually sound disappointed; he’s probably wanted you like this for a while.

It still feels good when he pushes into you, and you latch onto that, the familiar heat and pressure and rhythm something to cling to. He mutters something that won’t be anything other than derogatory, and you blot it out, a disassociated system that only exists between the two beating points of your head and your hips with nothing in between. It’s an easy surrender, and he laughs, more hoarse, losing his edge to the steady rise of your waist to meet his. You think you’ll get him back next time, you think you’ll find him when he’s strung out and boneless and you’ll show him exactly how it feels, and you can give in for now.

His hand on your throat is a threat he’s not going to follow through on; the mounting, breathless ache passed back and forth between you is the centre of your shared universe. You hate Kavinsky all the more for having him tangled up in your legs and sheets, and when he kisses you he doesn’t bite, and you paint his tongue with all the blood he made you taste. You fall in and out of the moment, and with every dizzy reconnection you find his eyes boring holes in you, so hungry he’ll crack your bones to take the marrow.

He hits an electric cluster deep inside you, and lightning rocks you right out of your head, until it’s impossible to tell if it’s really _good_ or if it’s just the relief of release, the agonizing unwind of every taut muscle in you. Kavinsky comes later with a triumphant shudder, and he never looks so human as when he’s gasping out into your shoulder. You don’t tell him you like it, and it’s lost a second later besides, buried under another lazy smirk and all his awful fucking self-satisfaction.

He tells you, “You were terrible,” and lets you hit him because he knows you can’t put anything behind it. Even his pulling out feels too much, scraping over raw nerves, and you’re embarrassingly exposed with every single over bright shiver he forces you to feel.

Your sheets are going to stink like sex, but at least he leaves, smacking you on the ass as a parting insult as he finally clears out. Monmouth is blessedly empty without him, holy ground restored, and Gansey won’t notice his things out of place when he finally makes it back with your medicine. You drag yourself into the shower to disappear under a cleansing wave of hot steam, like the new shadows on your collarbone can be washed off, like everything Kavinsky does isn’t pressed in deep under your skin.

You’ll pay him back as soon as your head’s on straight again.  

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I'd love to know what you thought!! I also have a [tumblr](http://kiiouex.tumblr.com/).


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